


A Scar is a Healing

by foxfae



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Inquisitor Trevelyan - Freeform, Love, Slow Burn, Trauma, cullen doesnt act on his feelings, herald lavellan, identity crisis, past fenris/hawke, solas loves her enough to let her go, the anchor comes to look similar to fenris' markings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-09 04:23:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19881589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxfae/pseuds/foxfae
Summary: Captured, the Herald is forced under the Venatori’s torturous experiments as they try to harness the power of the Anchor for Corypheus. The Inquisition scrambles to save her, sending a skilled and covert team: Cullen and Dorian. Contacted by an old friend, Fenris arrives to aid in the effort too, especially when fragments of his past become intertwined in the Herald’s plight.Yet, the rescue proves the easy part. Ffion Lavellan, wiped of memory, stumbles into a life she no longer knows how to live. With only the curling green lines carved all over body for answer, her recovery is hindered by expectations and consequences. While the Inquisition struggles to adjust, Fenris is there to lend his understanding and experience to Ffion; and while he intended to help, he didn’t quite expect to fall in love.[fenris x lavellan]





	1. the missing herald

_The Herald has been taken_.

Cullen couldn’t get the words of his head, unable to forget the scout’s breathy, trembling speech. The doors of the War Room were still groaning after their hasty exit, sent to retrieve the others. The incredulity of it made it almost unbelievable, but the fear in the scout’s eyes was real. Palpable. The Herald of Andraste, Thedas’ last hope against the Breach, had vanished. This was no passive disappearance, either – Ffion Lavellan had been _kidnapped,_ seized from the Inquisition with malicious intent.

The advisors waited, silent and stony, for the arrival of the Inquisitor and the companions. Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, temples throbbing with the threat of a headache. He was barely breathing, tense and rigid.

Josephine gently touched his shoulder. “Ffion is strong and resourceful,” Josephine murmured. “And the Inquisition is influential throughout all of Thedas. We will find her, Cullen.” He wanted to believe her, for the Ambassador spoke the truth. The Herald had honed her ingenuity since the Conclave, becoming an avid little tempest that had even charmed the reticent Solas. Guilt clawed at Cullen for the doubt, but the fact that someone had caught her… it shattered the illusion that everyone, including himself, had been wrapped up in. They all believed her to be invincible, shrugging off death time and time again, but Ffion was _vulnerable_. Her enemies were just as numerous as Trevelyan’s, but of a far more sinister origin – and there was so little information about her disappearance.

“We’ve failed her,” he muttered.

The room – once struck into an uneasy silence – now filled with idle banter as the companions entered, few noting the advisors’ concern. Judgement was laid upon the crumbling wall in the corridor, while Blackwall and Bull admired the detail of the map upon the big oak table.

“Are we all to finally receive titles?” quipped Dorian.

“I have a few ideas, if that’s to be the case,” chuckled Varric.

Katarina burst in, fiery red hair as unkempt as a lion’s mane. “Leliana, tell me what happened.” For all her dishevelment, the Inquisitor was no less demanding as usual, her focus making Cullen stand a little straighter.

“The Herald has been taken,” the Spymaster repeated, and Cullen cringed. The companions all quietened, mirroring the exact reaction of the advisors earlier. “An ambush in Dead Man’s Pass in Crestwood, over a week ago now.”

“Why are we only finding out about this _now?_ ”

“They sent ravens, but the birds never arrived. A scout delivered the news only an hour ago.” Gesturing at the map, Leliana spoke in low tones, stoic and steadfast in her explanation. “Townspeople found the scene. There’s a survivor – one of our own – but he was still too injured to give details when the scout left. There was evidence of magic, however.”

“This is no attempt at ransom,” Cullen added, eyeing the token that marked Ffion’s last known location. “They took out a whole retinue of Inquisition soldiers, and precautions have been taken to keep us unaware of it.”

“Yes,” Leliana continued. “We’ve lost so much time already, and we can no longer trust our ravens to deliver information. Our operations are compromised.”

“It might be much more serious than that, I fear,” murmured Dorian, his swagger wiped away by his furrowed brows. “I remember there was a Venatori mine nearby. Their insane little cult poses the biggest threat to the Herald. Darkspawn are deadly, but they are not intelligent. If it were Red Templars, surely shards of lyrium would’ve been left behind.”

Leliana nodded. “Plausible. It is our best lead so far, but regardless, the only choice is to return to Crestwood.”

“We cannot let this information travel far,” Josephine murmured, accent light and lilting despite the dire situation. “The Herald’s absence makes the Inquisition vulnerable, and we cannot afford that. Inquisitor, you’ll have to keep up appearances, as will everyone else.”

“You’re concerned about _reputation?_ ” Cullen seethed, unable to control himself. “Ffion could be anywhere by now. We need the whole of Thedas searching for her!”

Solas eyed him, and Cullen all but glared back. If the elf wasn’t going to speak for Ffion – as he _should_ – then Cullen would gladly take up the mantle.

“Josephine is right, Commander,” gritted Cassandra. “It will only attract unwanted attention.”

Another objection lay on his tongue, but Cullen gave a terse nod. As Leliana said, the next step was to investigate Crestwood for themselves.

+++

_The Herald has been taken_.

Sitting atop a knoll in Crestwood, Solas could see all the way to old town and the lake beyond. It sparkled under the sun, the surrounding hills lush with greenery. Looking at it now, it was hard to believe it had been so grim and dark before the Rift had been sealed. He still remembered the laugh that bubbled from Ffion’s throat as they exited the caves, eyes shining as she stepped into the light.

 _Ffion._ His heart lurched again, and Solas shook his head. Those damning words spoken back at Skyhold had ushered in a troubled silence over all the companions and advisors. It lasted the week’s ride to Crestwood, lingered even now as they waited for Cassandra to finish the interrogation up in Caer Bronach. The atmosphere regressed, and it was like the beginning again, when the Breach was still a novel sight. Solas kept to himself at the edge of the party while Cassandra kept a close eye on him, and even Blackwall was as stiff as he’d been when first recruited. The only thing missing was the snickers of Ffion, who always found humour in the strangest things during their travels.

“A double agent. A _mole_ in the Inquisition,” growled Blackwall, shifting in his heavy armour somewhere behind Solas. After examining the ambush site – a _lot_ of blood and bodies, broken steel and scorch marks – he’d retreated to this grassy hilltop, dotted with embrium. He didn’t know when he’d been joined by the rest of the party, having long since left their company – their palpable tension only threatened to make Solas lose his grip on his own simmering panic. Nothing pressed against the Veil here, but his own thoughts could be just as damning as a malicious spirit. He wanted to retreat into the Fade, into his own memories of when Ffion had kissed him in this very spot, uplifted after the sun had shone on Crestwood again. “Why? I just can’t understand it.”

"Manipulation is part of the Venatori’s charm,” Dorian sighed. “You saw the letter. They promised that scout a title and fortune for information on the Herald’s movements.”

Blackwall scoffed. “All lies, I’d wager?” 

“Oh, quite right.”

“At least we’re certain of her captors now,” Blackwall mumbled. 

Solas closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a breath. The guilt, the worry, the _panic –_ it all simmered beneath his skin. He didn’t look at them, instead focusing on Old Crestwood sprawling in the distance.

“Lavellan never recovered from what happened at Redcliffe,” Solas spoke, remembering the latent fear that had haunted her ever since. She said little of it, giving only vague details when pressed. It had _crippled_ her that night; he would never forget the way she’d clutched at him in the darkness, her tears dripping onto his face as she murmured things like _you matter to me, you are my heart, I’m sorry, I’m_ so _sorry._ “If the Venatori have her, then she will be afraid.”

Solas turned his scowl to Dorian and Blackwall, taking in their dismay. Everyone feared for Ffion’s safety, but Solas couldn’t bear the thought of what she must be suffering _right now_ , forced to reckon with those she met in that Red Future. “My Ffion—,” his voice faltered, throat constricting, “Ffion is brave, but she’s made it easy to forget how young she is. Hope often pales in the face of fear – an uneasy truth we must acknowledge, even with our Herald. We sit here, scrambling like children, while Ffion may be thinking that which she fears the most is coming to pass.”

“And what’s that?” Dorian murmured, toying with a fraying bracelet. It was patterned and handmade – a Dalish craft. Ffion had given such gifts to all her friends after Redcliffe, offering no explanation outside it being a mere token of friendship. Solas reached for his mage’s stave, running a finger over the several patterned bands tied around it.

“The Inquisition’s fall,” Solas answered. “It will mean the death of her friends, and the rise of Corypheus.” 

“The poor poppet,” Blackwall whispered. Solas clenched his fists, swallowed hard as his nose stung with the treat of tears. Ffion had become his in a way that was much more personal than Solas ever intended. Her death would complicate things on an intellectual level – the success of the Inquisition lay at stake, as well as his own plans – but such things were survivable. It was the inevitable heartbreak that would tear him asunder, and Solas didn’t know if he could bear such sorrow again.

Cassandra trudged her way up the hill, brows furrowed hard. “I am done,” she intoned, not sparing them a glance as she glared northward. Solas eyed the speckles of blood on her armour, stains that hadn’t been there this morning. _I need space to work_ , she had said when they objected to her lone interrogation of the compromised scout. “We must ride _now_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah i'm so excited for this story & the dynamics that'll be explored! just in case it was missed: in this world-state, lavellan serves as the herald with the anchor, while trevelyan, unmarked, serves as the inquisitor. 
> 
> we'll be seeing ffion in the next chapter, and fenris will come in soon, too! x


	2. the venatori's prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan fights back as much she can against her captors, but she is compromised. Meanwhile, the Inquisition holds another meeting to discuss the developments. Solas almost loses his temper.

“The mark is as the Elder One said,” the man mumbled to himself. “Embedded. Yes, yes…”

Ffion winced as he turned her palm over this way and that, occasionally smudging ink on her skin after adding to his notes. Her other arm was tied to a hook above, while her feet were chained to a post in the floor.

“The scar is green… The wound is not sealed by flesh, then. Yes…”

Ffion had been down in this ship’s hold for days. It was hard to keep track of time – their draughts tended to keep lucidity at bay – but she had awoken to the smell of brine time and time again. Before, it was always someplace else: on the back of a horse in green hills, in a creaking wagon rolling over brown dirt. The damp, musky smell of brine reminded her of Crestwood, but the rolling waves beyond didn’t belong to any lake or river. No, Ffion knew they were on the open sea.

She groaned as the ship lilted, stomach roiling. The beat of the waves echoed in her head, her bruised temple throbbing in tune. Ffion didn’t recall much of the attack; there was the blinding flash of an explosion, followed by mere moments of confused shouts before an almighty blow sent her to the ground. Sometimes her vision still bled with odd spots of colour, warping and twisting reality into some strange, dripping painting – but perhaps this was only the poison in her food, given to keep her weak and incoherent.

A square of pale light shone from upstairs, the trapdoor thudding closed as a soldier descended the steps from the deck. “Food for the Pretender, Lord Aurelius,” he intoned, a threadbare sack hanging limp from his hand. He did not look at Ffion, but rather stared over her head.

Aurelius barely glanced up. “Yes.” Stiffly, the soldier let the sack drop, and out rolled a pockmarked apple. She eyed it, mouth tingling with hunger but stomach churning. The ship rolled again, and Ffion let out a shaky breath.

“Where are we?” she growled, scowling at the soldier.

“Far from the Inquisition’s aid.” There was no amusement in his face; in fact, none of her captors had an inkling of smug satisfaction about them. They were driven and focused, yet there was something in their eyes – some restrained zealotry – that set Ffion on edge. It all reminded her of a red castle, filled with the writings of crazy men.

The soldier left with a final glance at her scarred hand. Aurelius was still… _fondling_ it, clinical yet reverent.

“What do you _want_ with it?” she seethed, repeating a question she’d asked countless times now. Aurelius didn’t deign to answer, merely shifting in his robe. Ffion averted her gaze with a sneer, impatience masking the panic simmering beneath. Before, the threat of the Venatori had been simple; they were mere assassins with the goal to eliminate the Herald. Now, they wanted her _alive_ , ferrying her across the sea to gods-knew-where and calling her the—

_Pretender._

Ffion flinched, remembering the thunder to Corypheus’ voice all those months ago in Haven.

“Stay still, elf.”

Glaring at Aurelius, she wanted to rip that beard right off his skin. It was fine and long, nothing like the coarse stubble of Ferelden men. There was youth to his face, perhaps in his third decade. It was clear that his appreciation was aimed at the Anchor only, seeing her as nothing more than its charge. Sometimes, Ffion herself saw it the same way, but Solas was always capable of convincing her otherwise.

 _Oh, Solas_. The way Aurelius examined the mark – it was a perversion of Solas’ own careful, tender investigations. Slouching against the hull, Ffion swallowed hard. She tried to remember Solas’ words of comfort when the nightmares of Redcliffe would strike, leaving her sweating and shaking and seeing nothing but red, but the waves were crashing and her head was pounding—

 _The future is not set in stone,_ Solas had told her. _Every action taken since Redcliffe has led you further and further from the future you’ve seen. It will not come to pass,_ ma vhenan, _not if you fight against it._

Ffion’s eyes flashed. She was aching, exhausted, wet and dirty and _tied up_ —but she still had nerve _._ These men couldn’t— _wouldn’t—_ take her to Corypheus. She knew that joining the Inquisition would mean death, but not today. _Not yet._ She couldn’t die, not if Corypheus still lived – it was the first step to the Red Future.

Snarling, Ffion wrenched her hand away from Aurelius. The rope bit into her wrist as she strained for the dropped sack, fumbling for the waterskin inside. If she could make Aurelius drink it, force the liquid lethargy down his throat—

A vicious backhand toppled her. Ffion’s head slammed against the floor, and it was like that explosion again, ears ringing and vision bursting white. She yelped as Aurelius hauled her up by her hair, forcing the apple into her mouth. Ffion choked, the fruit so old and soft that the mushy pulp congealed at the back of her throat.

Yanked to face him, Ffion’s eye watered as another headache bloomed. She spat out the rest of the apple, spittle flying and catching Aurelius’ face. His jaw feathered.

“Dalish insolence,” he muttered, wiping at his cheek. Ffion only grinned, teeth framed with blood as it dribbled down her chin. _The gall,_ Corypheus had sneered. Indeed. She took a deep breath, gathered another mouthful of saliva—

There was no blow this time, only a murmur from Aurelius’ lips as his magic sent her under. 

+++

“ _Tevinter?_ ” Cullen spluttered, gripping the edge of the War Table. “They want to take her to Tevinter?”

“They _are_ taking her to Tevinter,” Dorian corrected. “It’s been three weeks now. I’d be surprised if she was still in Ferelden.”

“Do you think that’s where Corypheus is hiding?” Leliana joined, arms crossed.

Dorian glanced at Solas – they’d been discussing this at length since Crestwood – but the elf was pale, having retreated inside himself again. He was curt with his words, and perhaps some even mistook his stoic demeanour as apathy. Dorian knew better, however - it was hard to hide on the road. Solas’ lapses of control when darkspawn had barred their way was tell enough. 

“I don’t know,” Dorian muttered.

“The Breach’s influence is stronger on this side of the Waking Sea,” Solas commented, face sharp. “He’d be weaker there, so it is unlikely. His goal would be to conserve strength. Regardless, the Imperium is _no_ place for an elf.”

“Indeed,” Dorian continued. “Lavellan may escape the Venatori, but she’ll struggle to remain inconspicuous. There’s the Imperial guard, obviously, but then there are bounty hunters, informants, slavers—”

“Yes, alright,” Cullen growled. “They won’t be travelling in the open – Ferelden knows her likeness. This will slow them, at least. They might not have reached the Imperium yet – it’s a long journey in itself.”

Katarina sighed, running a hand through her hair. “We’re still running out of time. We have no allies in Tevinter, and we won’t be able to contend with them. The Inquisition is spread thin as it is, even with many operations halted with the Herald’s disappearance. We _must_ reach her before they cross the border.”

Cullen grunted. “Agreed. The Free Marches lies between Ferelden and the Imperium – they might be awaiting transport in one of the trading ports.”

Leliana nodded. “I’ll make enquiries.”

“ _You?_ ” Solas scoffed, and everyone turned. Dorian, right next to him, let out a quiet sigh. This was bound to happen – the elf was coiled as tight as a whip. “It is _your_ agent which sold Ffion’s life to fulfil his greed. How can we trust any information you find?”

“Leliana is not to blame for the weakness of one man, Solas,” Cassandra warned, levelling her gaze.

Solas schooled his face again. “Perhaps not. I should have known better - human avarice is so commonplace. You often fall to vices more damning than dealing with demons, after all.” He turned heel and left, muttering under his breath.


	3. reunions in skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris, summoned by Varric, arrives in Skyhold.

_I did not expect to hear from you again, Varric. Especially not all the way from Ferelden._

_If Tevinter mages are involved, slavery is bound to follow. I will help. My arrival in Skyhold should come soon._

_Fenris_

+++

Settled on the second floor of the Herald’s Rest, it was clear to Fenris this was a much nicer tavern than the Hanged Man. In Kirkwall, there had always been blood on the floor, broken glass still scattered under tables from the latest brawl. The smell of sweat was more potent than that of ale. This experience of a tavern was the only one Fenris had – the others he’d visited were in the same lowly vein, places that paid homage to a drifter's life.

Skyhold was different. The Herald’s Rest was warmed by murmurs and lilting lyresong, its tables cast in yellow light by the mounted torches. Named as a place of relaxation, even Fenris could admit to its pleasant and inviting atmosphere. This tavern felt like walking into someone’s home, like being welcomed. An impressive thing to have achieved in the middle of the Frostback Mountains.

“By Andraste’s holy knickers, Fenris,” chuckled Varric, shaking his head. Fenris turned away from the banister, where he’d been studying the people below. “I still can’t believe it’s been three years.”

“I haven’t changed that much,” he murmured, but Varric’s eyes only shone with amusement. Frowning, Fenris became acutely aware of his longer hair; but while it was tied back, it still fell into his eyes as it always used to. His armour was still jagged and fitted, but Fenris had added sleeves before entering the snows. Minor alterations at best; nothing noteworthy.

“Ah, I’ve missed that brooding tone. Thanks for coming, by the way. You said soon, but I didn’t expect within a _week!_ ”

Fenris hummed. “I was on the islands near West Hill when I received your letter. Ferelden was closer than—”

“ _Fenris?_ ”

Deep and low, the voice of a city. Fenris stilled, slowly looking up at the figure casting a shadow over their table. A scruffy beard and a mess of hair to match, yet his strong jawline still came through. That heavy brow was contorted in confusion and hope, the tentative smile on his face so at odds with his big, muscled body that was built like a bear. Garret Hawke was weathered, but he still looked like the man Fenris once knew.

“You didn’t say Hawke was here,” Fenris muttered to Varric, but he was still looking Hawke. That red stripe across his nose was gone, no longer Kirkwall’s Champion.

“Nice to see you, too,” he smirked. Still charming and confident, Hawke pulled up a chair as Varric slapped the table with a cheer.

“We have ourselves a reunion! Who would’ve thought, huh? Us three entangled in saving the world.”

Fenris wanted to be angry – it would’ve been easier than this nostalgic hurt. They’d all parted from each other and Kirkwall to drive the Divine’s forces away from the city if it came to an Exalted March following the mage rebellion, but Fenris knew the group had splintered well before that. Even so, he’d since only heard whispers of Hawke, on the run with Anders.

“Only due to your interference, Varric,” drawled Hawke, finally breaking away from Fenris’ gaze. “You know self-interest far outweighs my altruism.” That sly tone could have fooled those around them, but Fenris knew better. He might not have agreed with everything the man had done, but he had chosen to follow him through thick and thin, even after their… breaking. Fenris had been naïve; not about Hawke’s enduring loyalty and honour, but about himself. He wasn’t ready for a relationship then, for all the touches and commitments that went along with it, but he’d blamed it on their experience in the Fade. Being seduced by a demon, tempted by the promise of enough power to rival a Magister… it was sickening. Fenris just couldn’t be with a mage after that, even if he and Hawke had still been a tentative thing. The pain of letting Hawke go – right into the eventual arms of Anders – had shocked him with its sincerity, but it was a choice that had to be made.

“How long have you been here?” Fenris asked, gaze still fixed on him.

“With the Inquisition? About six months. I didn’t think the Grey Warden business would lead me here,” he shrugged, brows furrowing. “Blasted Corypheus. I’m just glad Carver got out of Orlais in time.”

“You travel alone now?”

“Mostly,” he swallowed. “I couldn’t bring— _him—_ with me, not with the Inquisition being an arm of the Chantry.”

Varric whistled. “Oh, the Herald would disagree with that.”

“Now that’s ironic,” Fenris deadpanned, finishing the last of his wine. He could taste that Ferelden vinification wasn’t refined at all.

A huff of laughter around the table. Hawke put a hand on his shoulder, careful of the pointed pauldrons. “I have missed you, Fenris. You look well.”

“I’ve missed you too, Hawke,” he said, voice a little strained. With only a handful of friends, he’d mourned the distance that had scattered them all to the winds. “Even you, Varric. I’m expecting a game of Wicked Grace before all this is done.”

“There’s strong competition here, elf,” Varric warned with a smirk. “But you’re on.”

Fenris nodded to himself, a small smile playing at his own mouth. Below, dinnertime fell upon the tavern as soldiers and workers filed in, boisterous and rowdy. There was no belligerency, however; instead of a brawl breaking out, it was a song. Voices, young and old, cried out in surprising harmony to heroes, fights, prowess and hope. Fenris had never seen such a thing; it was a drinking song, yes, but it was an anthem too. Sheer belief rose around them to rumble the very floors of the tavern. _We’ll take back the sky!_ they sang, invoking the names of both Herald and Inquisitor. _We’ll even the score!_

Hawke’s eyes shone with amusement, and Fenris expected Varric to join in. The dwarf’s mouth was drawn in a thin line, however, gaze fixed on a framed sketch hanging below the plaque on the first floor. It was a rough depiction in charcoal of a solitary figure standing in front of a whole legion, the heads of the army so numerous that it was almost just a swathe of darkness.

The song faded, replaced by the hum of idle chatter. Strange; Fenris hadn’t noted any sense of worry in Skyhold. “Do they not know?”

Varric’s bout of solemnity was answer enough. “No. It’s on a need to know basis.” He shuffled from his seat, downing the last of his ale. “We should go. The advisors will be meeting soon.”

Taking to the steps leading to Skyhold’s main hall, Fenris eyed Varric beside him. “They _are_ aware you contacted me, yes?”

“About that…,” he trailed, offering Fenris a lopsided shrug. Fenris could only roll his eyes, not surprised in the slightest.

“I haven’t heard of the Venatori before,” he started, passing by the warmth of a lit brazier. The hall was largely empty, only a few courtiers milling about. Ahead, the Inquisitor’s throne gleamed. “I’ve received some reports of magisters in Kirkwall, but I haven’t been there myself recently. Could be the same people.”

“If you haven’t been in Kirkwall, what's been keeping you busy?”

“I’ve been hunting slavers on the coast of the Free Marches. After Anders… I’ve tried not to focus so much on mages anymore.” Fuelling that initial hatred had been self-destructive, keeping him from moving beyond Danarius. While still wary of magic and mages’ desires, Fenris didn’t want to be smothered by it anymore. It was still a process, however. 

"And you said you haven’t changed much,” Varric smirked.

While still in repair, Skyhold had a humble opulence about it. Above, mighty banners proclaimed the insignia of the Inquisition, and the walls were hung with all kinds of paintings about their achievements. Two big portraits dominated over the rest, however, and Fenris paused to study them.

The first, closest to the throne, rendered a woman in shades of red, her curly hair catching in the light. The blue eyes were that of a noble, as were the aquiline nose and full, pouty lips. She looked straight ahead, a distanced image of duty and obligation. Beneath, it read: _Katarina Trevelyan, the Inquisitor._

The second painting carried no such formality. The elf’s amber eyes were narrowed in mischief, smirking to hide a toothy grin. Lines of ink curled over her forehead and down her cheeks.

“That’s the Herald,” Varric murmured, but there was no need, a plaque below announced: _Ffion Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste._ “She just couldn’t sit still that day,” he smiled, wistful. “Eventually she got distracted by some squabble going on in the hall, but the artist had long given up on the ambassador’s request to capture Lavellan in an ‘ _official light’.”_

Fenris raised a brow, intrigued by the volumes of love people had for her. Varric was sentimental to begin with, but the way even humans revered the Dalish woman… it was unheard of. Tales of her courageous bravery had even reached the potential slaves he’d recently liberated; they told him it was Lavellan’s bravery which kept them from submitting. He himself didn’t quite know what to think of the Herald of Andraste, embroiled as she was between the religions of the Dalish and the Chantry.

“I contacted you because you’re familiar with how Tevinter mages operate,” Varric continued, leading the way. “The Inquisition has decided on its team, but I thought they could use a little extra help.”

“They really don’t want this getting out, do they?” he mused, rather drily.

“Dorian is the only one really familiar with the Venatori, and Cullen’s got contacts in the city. You’d be bridging their expertise, I guess.”

Fenris’ brows furrowed. “You won’t be coming?”

Varric shook his head as they turned into a small, branching corridor. Its carpet was ragged, and one wall had crumbled into mere rubbles of stones. The cold wind whipped at them, threatening to blow out the candles lighting the way.

“Too famous, apparently. My presence could—”

Raised voices cut him off, the doors ahead not diminishing their force in the slightest.

“There is no _time!_ ” came a shout. “At the very best they intend to torture her for information. You will need me! _She_ will need me! I won’t just _sit_ here and wait.”

Softer tones, saying placating things Fenris couldn’t make out—

“ _Shut. Up_. You do not know what I am capable of.”

Varric muttered under his breath, something like _ah, shit._ “That’s Solas,” he murmured, grimacing at the door. “They’ve probably denied him of coming again.”

“Why?”

“He’d complicate things too much.”

The heavy doors burst open. Fenris was surprised to find an elf stalking past them, growling as he barely paid them any heed. Varric tried to say something, but Solas left swiftly. Turning back to the doors of the War Room, Fenris found the startled faces of an assembled party, gawking. One woman, strong and stern, had paled with shock, but soon recovered to scowl and point a finger at Varric.

“Later, Seeker. You’re going to need him to save the Herald.”


	4. the magister's tool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ffion suffers under the hand of the Venatori.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: torture scenes, a lil bit gory.

Ffion groaned as the world tilted, the agents on either side orienting the table beneath her to stand vertically. Hands pinned by her sides, the rope bit into her skin as it kept her restrained. By now, her wrists bled at just the slightest chafing.

Candles lit the big chamber, but their warm light was corrupted by the glow of red lyrium. Raw clusters of it burst from the ground and ceiling, making the room look jagged. Heart pounding, Ffion strained against the table, but her limbs were fixed fast.

Aurelius stood before her at a small desk, aloof as he studied a handful of parchment.

“What is this?” Ffion gritted, sneering at the nearest soldier. He looked straight ahead, however, not even sparing her naked body a glance.

“Your reinvention,” Aurelius drawled, still preoccupied as he conversed quietly with two other robed figures – mages. Ffion’s breath hitched; she couldn’t fend off magic, not like this, not even when she was healthy and armed. She’d confronted the Venatori’s spellbinders before, but Aurelius… he was a _Magister._

One of the mages neared, hooded and faceless. They knelt, paintbrush in hand as an inkwell was placed on the ground. It was so absurd that Ffion wanted to laugh when they started to trace a pattern on her skin, delicately unfurling up her legs.

Aurelius watched the mage work, nodding to himself. “The Elder One will be pleased with the work done here,” he intoned. “We will harness the power of the Anchor in Lord Corypheus’ name, bend you to his will. History will remember this day.”

Ffion flinched as the mage’s brush trailed higher, tickling up her torso. “Haven’t you heard?” she snapped, looking over their shoulder to glare at the Magister. “I’ve _spoiled_ it,” she grinned, spite her last and only defence left. “Whatever you’re trying to achieve is a delusion.” The brush crawled over her neck and Ffion snapped her teeth in the mage’s face, startling the hood from the woman’s head. She clenched her jaw, throwing Ffion’s head back into the table.

Her grunt echoed throughout the chamber as she went slack, letting the mage continue. Down over her arms the peculiar pattern went, reminiscent of _vallaslin_. The slide of paint was wet and heavy as the mage connected the final line with the scar on Ffion’s left palm.

Aurelius’ eyes flashed with hungeras his eyes roved over Ffion’s marked body. She ground her teeth, averting her gaze. The shuffle of robes, the clink of metal.

Whipping her head back, nausea roiled in her gut as an elaborate dagger gleamed in his hand. The blade itself was lined with a dripping liquid.

“You do not serve Andraste, Pretender,” Aurelius chanted, raising his other arm. The soldiers stepped away as the mages took their place, raising their arms as they started to murmur in Tevene. Her skin prickled as magic shimmered in the air. “You will serve the Elder One through me. _I am your master now._ ”

Ffion let out a nervous cackle, spurred by rising hysteria. There was no way out. Some part of her had hoped the Inquisition would come, but perhaps it was too late – maybe Corypheus had stormed Skyhold in her absence, and she was only the last piece to seize. Spitting at Aurelius’ feet, Ffion forced herself to remain spiteful to the end. It’s what each of her companions would’ve done. “I serve no _shem_.”

The dagger plunged into her palm. She grunted, hot pain shooting up her fingers as they splayed wide. Aurelius dragged the blade up, following the painted lines. Warm blood trickled in his wake, the sensation causing bile to rise in her throat.

“You _will_ call me Master,” Aurelius whispered, the blade not pausing as it sliced across her skin. Ffion groaned, grinding her teeth and biting her tongue. “ _Yes,_ ” he breathed, his other hand gripping her steady as a smile lifted his lips. “Yes, yes, look, _look,_ ” he implored, and Ffion looked, because she could feel it, feel the mark _burning_ as it climbed up the path carved for it, stinging and throbbing and _crackling_ as it sealed the open flesh. “The mark grows. Yield to it. Yield to _me._ ”

Panting, Ffion shook her head, the world spinning. “ _B-Bellanaris din'an h-heem!_ ”

Aurelius pressed harder, sliding over her chest. Ffion screamed as it scraped against her collarbone, the blade digging deep. Sick warmth spilled over her flesh, oozing and dripping before lively green crawled into the fresh cuts, _glowing._

“Who do you serve?” he growled, and all Ffion could hear was her heartbeat, his breath, and the foreign chanting, rising and pulsing like the very blood in her veins. All she could do was scream as the knife carved that pattern into her skin, the pain never-ending as the Anchor _ate_ its way across her body. Lightning, it felt like _lightning_ striking her body with no end.

Tears wet her cheeks, her throat raw but still screaming. It ripped from her chest, the crippling pain and _fear;_ she was _dying—_ worse, _transforming._ The pop and crackle of fizzing blood arced beneath her skin, so impossibly loud. Ffion convulsed against the table, writhing, straining, knocking her very head against the surface just to feel an ache rather than the burn of a blade _._

Squeezing her eyes shut, there was nothing more to look for in this world. Her throat stung raw, body beginning to go slack, submitting. Thoughts, thoughts, they roiled in her mind as she moaned and wept and screeched, no dignity, no pride, no honour left. No hope for her, but Ffion held out for her friends. Fragments of snark and humour echoed in her splintering mind; she hoped Dorian wouldn’t blame himself for the folly of his countrymen. The only one who understood the sheer horror of the Red Future, Ffion hoped he would find the acceptance he sought.

Aurelius was kneeling before her now, reverent for all the wrong reasons. Every touch ached and throbbed, be it knife or hand or magic.

The memory of kindness; rallying words inspiring valour and determination, shy smiles and small gestures. Ffion sobbed as she wished Cullen all the luck and courage in the world in conquering his lyrium addiction. It was he who had taught her to fight in armour, who indulged her by listening to all her tales.

The blade scraped against bone again and Ffion _shrieked,_ unending until her voice broke. She swallowed blood, trembling and groaning brokenly as things started to slip away in earnest.

A fleeting feeling of solace— _Solas._ Her comfort, her _love,_ her very soul. She longed for his touch now, even if everything hurt, even if she was carved up like some Tevinter delicacy. She hoped he’d flee like he’d originally planned all those months ago, before she fell from the Fade; find a place at the edge of the world to hide until he found the answer. Most of all, Ffion wanted him to be _happy_ again.

It was his smile that was her last memory in this life.

Each inch of cleaved flesh burned and burned and burned, oozed and sizzled and crackled until there was nothing left but pain, and it was all she knew, nothing but this feeling, this bodily suffering—

“Who am I to you?” Aurelius demanded, dragging the knife against her throat. _“_ Answer me, Pretender _. What am I to you?_ ”

“ _M-Master!”_ she spluttered, hoarse and broken. “Master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
> bellanaris din'an heem = make you dead (direct)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! x


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